


made in the a.m.

by rhodeytony



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Kiss, M/M, Pre-Relationship, idk how to tag
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-17
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 17:55:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,482
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15712170
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rhodeytony/pseuds/rhodeytony
Summary: Summer. Paris. 1963.Two men who have known nothing but death, destruction, and the feel of a trigger, fall in love.





	made in the a.m.

**Author's Note:**

> Hello! Writing this was... Something else, I'll say. I've been kind of emotional lately so I'm like 'why not let my two favourite boys go through it?' 
> 
> Unbeta'd! Any and all mistakes are mine. 
> 
> Enjoy!

It was 2:30 am when Illya woke up to get a glass of water from the kitchenette of the hotel. They were on a mission in Paris; another terrorism plot waiting to be foiled. Cliche, classic, and easy. Illya was leaning over the sink, chugging the water and letting it dribble down his chin and into the sink. He finished and let out a breath. He set the glass in the sink and looked out the window. 

He had always found summer nights to be so pretty. During his young days as a new agent in the KGB, when he was finished with missions and waiting for the extraction team at the designated safe house, he would sit out in the backyard and look at the stars. Dreaming of touching them. He would reach out, as if he were about to grab a handful of stars. He missed the days if being naïve and young.

Illya walked out of the kitchenette, fully planning to go back to bed, when he looked toward the closed french doors that led to the balcony. He could see thin clouds of smoke. Illya walked to the doors and opened one, sticking his head out and looking around. 

Sitting in a chair by the little glass table was Napoleon. He had a cigarette dangling from his mouth as he stared out at the skyline of Paris. His legs were crossed and he had his arm propped up on his higher leg, leaning his chin on his palm. He was wearing his pyjamas and slippers still.

“Cowboy?” Illya said tentatively, as if he were almost afraid to spook Napoleon like one would a deer. Illya stepped out onto the balcony and walked over to Napoleon who regarded him with a lazy side look before focusing back on Paris.

Illya sat in the other chair on the other side of the small glass table. He looked at the contents on the table; whiskey, whiskey glass, pack of smokes, matches and an ashtray with three cigarettes in it. 

Illya picked up the smokes and shook out a cigarette. Illya hasn’t smoked since his last mission for the KGB— the one before he was tasked with retrieving Gaby, who was asleep in the master bed of the hotel room. He struck a match and lit the cigarette, shook the match out and took in a breath. 

He exhaled, a long wisp of white smoke leaving his lips. He looked over at Napoleon and took him in: his pyjamas were ruffled and wrinkled, his hair messy and unkempt, he was shaking slightly. All were things that just weren’t so Napoleon. His clothes were always pressed, his hair slicked back, his composure calm and relaxed. But then again, Illya suspects that he doesn’t know the real Napoleon— just the one Napoleon lets him see. 

“Everything okay, Solo?” he asked. Illya wouldn’t look at Napoleon but instead stared at the red glow at the end of the cigarette he let hang from his fingertips. Napoleon sighed and Illya could see from, the corner of his eye, as Napoleon ran a shaky hand through his already messy hair. 

“No.” That was all he said. No elaboration or even a fake ‘I’m fine’. Illya isn’t used to seeing his partner like this; vulnerable and with his guard down. Illya could make out eyebags under Napoleon’s eyes when he turned to look at him after he spoke. They were visible and jarring. 

“What’s wrong?” Illya took another inhale and poured two fingers of whiskey and pushed the glass towards Napoleon. He exhaled smoke and tapped the cigarette with his finger over the railing of the balcony. 

Napoleon chuckled and accepted the drink, taking a sip. “Nightmares, Kuryakin. Dreams that personify my guilts. My demons.” Another sip. Inhale of cigarette. Napoleon squashed the cigarette out in the ashtray. It was at its end. 

Illya nodded. He knew about nightmares. He’s had quite a few himself before he started taking sleeping medication, they limit his dreams. He usually doesn’t have any anymore. It’s nice. His night terrors would affect his work, his day to day life. Nightmares are the ghosts you can never get rid of but only put at bay. 

“What… what are they about, if I may ask?” Illya inhaled again. He was almost done with his cigarette. He wished he didn’t take such long inhales. He doesn’t wanna use up all of Napoleon’s smokes. 

Napoleon shrugged and took another sip of whiskey. He was gonna be done soon. “Things I’ve seen in the war. My friends die. Dirt exploding around me. But tonight… tonight my dreams were of this child who I met at an internment camp. She couldn’t have been more than 5” Napoleon took a shaky breath before he continued, “and her and I were playing. Just running around and kicking this ball— lousy excuse for a ball— when this Nazi soldier had got free and took a gun from one of our guys, shot him and them shot the girl. In her back. I remember- I remember holding her in my arms as she died. I saw the life, the colour, literally drain from her eyes, Illya.” Napoleon put the glass down, now empty, and put his hands in his face and inhaled shakily. 

Illya was silent. He didn’t know what to say. He took no part in the war because he was too busy working for the KGB. He couldn’t possibly relate to such a horror. He felt bad for Napoleon, of course. Wanted to tell him it’s okay, to let him know that it’s not his fault. He couldn’t say any of that so he just poured more whiskey.

Napoleon let out a small, weak ‘thank you’. He drank until the glass was empty, puckered his lips and closed his eyes as the whiskey travelled down his throat and settled like a low fire at the bottom of his stomach. When he opened his eyes he turned and looked at Illya. His eyes were wet with what Illya assumed were tears and his cheeks flushed either from the whiskey or the summer wind. 

Illya cleared his throat. “I… I cannot say that I understand what you went through, Solo but I can say that it is not your fault. Nazi’s are monsters.”   
He looked at his cigarette in between his fingers, it was now all burned, just ash remained. He squashed it out in the ashtray and put his hands in his lap.

Napoleon chuckled humorlessly and shook his head. “Nazi’s are monsters but you can kill monsters and this was just one monster I had missed. I will carry that mistake with me for the rest of my life,” Illya looked at Napoleon this time as he spoke and watched his face. He saw the tears stream down Napoleon’s cheek and collect on his chin for a second before falling into his lap. Napoleon sniffled. 

Illya checked his watch. Only 3:00. He’s been out here for 30 minutes and has seen more of the real Napoleon in that time than he has in the past 6 months that they have been working together.

“Thank you for telling me,” Illya said quietly. He saw Napoleon quirk the smallest of smiles. 

“Why are you thanking me? I just told you one of the most horrible stories,” Napoleon was confused and Illya could understand why. It took him a moment to gather his answer. How do you express gratitude for something so small but meant the world?

“You shared, Cowboy. I have worked with you for 6 months and you have never been this… real with me. Never this honest. I- I appreciate it.” That was the best Illya felt he could do. He watched as Napoleon slowly nodded his head. 

“What about you, hm? What’s been going on with you?” Napoleon’s tone sounded lighter as he asked and Illya really hoped that letting Solo open up to him lifted something off his chest. Or at least alleviated the burden he’s been carrying. 

“Nothing. Just work.” That was a half truth. Work was something that’s been going on with him. 

“No, Peril. What’s been going on with you? Tell me the truth, too. You’ve been distant, lately. More than usual,” Napoleon wasn’t gonna let him go without a. answer. 

Truthfully, he has. Illya has been consciously and slowly pulling away from Napoleon and Gaby. He’s never been this close to anybody. Never let people get to know him. One of the side effects of working with the KGB. Everyone os your enemy until they are dead. 

Illya let out a small sigh. “It’s just… I am not used to being, uh, close with people. I have never had many people to call friends. It’s scary,” and Illya realised that telling the truth sucks. 

“Oh, Peril. Of course it does, especially with our line of work. Gaby or you could die at any moment and that terrifies me. I would never tell this to Gaby but you two are probably my closest friends. I would die for you too. I almost have on several occasions,” Napoleon let out a little laugh and Illya frowned.

“I wish you would not do that, Cowboy. I do not like sitting at your bedside waiting for you to recover from stupid mistakes.” Illya thinks back to all the hospital chairs he’s slept in, the doctors he’s listened to, the stitches he’s cleaned. 

“Why do you do that? Just go home like Gaby does” Napoleon said. Illya rolled his eyes. As if it were that easy.

“I need to make sure you are safe.” Illya was now pouring whiskey for himself. To be vulnerable is to bare yourself to your comrades; your enemies; the world. It made Illya feel naked. 

Illya rested the now empty glass in his hand on the table, his hand still around it. Napoleon reached out with both his hand and grasped Illya’s.

“Thank you, Peril. Without you I would probably be 6 feet under or sitting in a damp corner slowly bleeding out.” The sincerity of Napoleon’s voice, the feeling of his hands around his made Illya’s heart flutter and his stomach drop. Illya wanted so badly to stop that feeling.

Illya has had this “crush” on Napoleon for approximately 3 months. It started when they were sitting on a couch in a hotel room in Barcelona, Spain drinking and relaxing after finishing a mission. Napoleon was splayed out on the ground with Illya, his head on Illya’s thigh. Napoleon was still in his suit with his tie undone and the top few buttons of his shirt popped open. Napoleon had fallen asleep on Illya and it was then, with Illya looking at the peacefulness on Napoleon’s face that he realised his feelings for the American.

Now, at 3:15 am in Paris, France the feelings that Illya has pushed away to the recesses of his mind were now in the forefront. The night sky against the Parisian city, Napoleon holding Illya’s hand with both of his and looking deeply in Illya’s eyes, speaking sincerely. It was too much.

“Cowboy, I- I cannot do this.” This was all Illya said before looking away.

“Do what, Peril? Goddammit, since we’re being honest I might as well keep going, huh? Fuck. I’ve loved you for so long, Peril. Ever since that day in the clothes shoppe, I knew” Napoleon stroked his thumb back and forth over Illya’s hand. Illya’s heart went from a flutter to a full on flock migrating South. 

“Solo…” Illya cleared his throat. “I think I love you, too. But we- we need to take it slow. I have never, ever, been with a man before. This is all new territory for me,” he felt shy, or nervous? Illya couldn’t quite pinpoint it but he also felt relief. Relief that he was able to tell Napoleon how he felt; that Napoleon had the same feelings. 

“I’m not saying we need to jump into anything right now, Kuryakin. We’ll take it slow, test out the waters. Start with dinner first. Maybe after the mission? We- I won’t do anything that you aren’t ready for” Napoleon raised Illya’s hand to his mouth and pressed a kiss to it. Soft and sweet. 

Illya smiled. Small, but there. He felt a warmth blossom in his chest that was starting to spread to his whole body. 

He released his hand from Napoleon’s hold and instead leaned over the small glass table. Napoleon quickly got the hint and also leaned over. Their lips connected, soft and warm. The sparks that went off in Illya’s body as Napoleon’s hand caressed his cheek and kissed him deeper. It was only a couple of seconds long but when they pulled away from one another their cheeks were pink and they were breathing a little heavy. 

Illya looked down at his watch. 3:25 am. Napoleon leaned his forehead against Illya’s. “We need to go to bed. The last part of the mission is tomorrow,” Illya said, his lips brushing against Napoleon’s with every word he spoke. 

Napoleon stood up straight, as did Illya, and cleared his throat. He grabbed the whiskey, glass, pack of smokes and matches, and walked towards the French doors. He held them open for Illya to walk through. Closing the door quietly, he walked in to the hotel room. He placed the objects in his arms on the dining table and turned around to see Illya standing in the hallway. 

Napoleon quickly walked down the hall to Illya. He smiled more so to himself than to Illya as he rested his hands on the Russian’s waist. Illya wrapped his long arms around Napoleon's back, clasping them together at the small of it, bringing Napoleon closer. He leaned down and Napoleon reached up until the lips met once again. 

It was longer this time. Sweeter. Softer. Illya could really sit in the soft feel of Napoleon’s lips on his own, the way Napoleon's lips moved against his. 

In the dead of night like this, in a dark corridor, it felt like a stolen kiss— a forbidden kiss. The kiss felt mysterious and dangerous and exciting. Illya was the first to pull away and unwrap himself from Napoleon. Napoleon pouted slightly at the loss of warmth Illya provided.

“Goodnight, Cowboy,” Illya whispered as he walked towards the bedroom door. Napoleon stood in the middle of the hallway and watched him. 

“Goodnight, Peril” and with that, Illya disappeared into the room. Napoleon was by himself in the hallway now. 

Napoleon bit his lip and walked into his bedroom. 

Napoleon slept soundly that night and dreamed of Russian accents and warm hands. 

Illya dreamed for the first time in years that night. He dreamt of soft, pink lips and hands holding his; of silk sheets and legs tangled with his.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope that you liked this fic I wrote. One of my more emotional works, I suppose. Thank you for reading!


End file.
